


Last Nights of August

by A_Certain_Allure



Category: Mission: Impossible, Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Black Character(s), Black Reader, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Henry Cavill, F/M, Interracial Relationship, Top Henry Cavill, black plus size reader - Freeform, i know it's not a reader fic but tagging it anyway, plus size reader, reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:24:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22508476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Certain_Allure/pseuds/A_Certain_Allure
Summary: Aleigha and "Julian" meet in a nightclub,  beginning a very casual, VERY sexual relationship. After some months of "conjugal" visits, she still knows very little about him. She realizes just how little she knows when a government agent visits to bring her up to speed.August Walker is on a quest to change the world for the better through nuclear warfare when he’s violently thwarted by IMF. In the aftermath, he divines his true mission.Should be 5ish chapters. Eventual non-con content to come, unfortunately.
Relationships: August Walker/Original Female Character(s), August Walker/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is loosely inspired by "Bad for Me" by user pleasesir who writes a deliciously dominant and emotionally distant August that just felt very in-character. Mine will be a little different especially as it explores August after the ending of MI: Fallout, but they definitely gave me a spark for the first chapter! 
> 
> Also this work hasn’t been edited very much, so just know that going into it.
> 
> I'll be taking some of my own trashy liberties in the next chapter(s). It is my strong suggestion that either before or after you read (and subsequently get off to) what will be a horribly violent piece of fiction, you do something to advocate for survivors of rape and sexual assault, or something to bring light on and a stop to rape culture. It could be research, a blog post, Facebook status, whatever. Speak up somewhere, somehow.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you read this and the inspiration material, you’ll find the nod to their work in a very specific phrase that I just _loved._

Three, now.

That was how many times he made her come just tonight, and the same number of nights out of 6 or 7 they’d ever had together in which he did so from fucking alone—meaning it was not some magical anomaly. Aleigha considered this somewhat of a game changer. It wasn’t impossible to climax with a partner, but in all cases before him, she had to make quite an effort to help a guy get her there.

Enter Julian. It was like his dick was designed to find her g-spot... and she was ninety-eight percent sure he wasn’t even trying— it was just a convenient side effect of his stamina and stroke part of the time. It would be clear to anyone watching that he was fucking for his own pleasure; he’d fuck her like a train and come only once later in the night, and that was that... in fact, that’s about as far as their interactions ever went before he pulled up his pants and jetted nearly as fast as she came apart beneath him. It was the unofficial routine they established eight months back, shortly after they met at some lounge.

It was a high end place with cocktails she really couldn’t afford but ordered nonetheless since the friend who dragged her, a star-chaser, ditched her at the first mention of a yacht. But Aleigha immediately noticed _him_ when he entered the room, as did everyone else; a man who looked that good, and with a mustache like that nonetheless, he could never not draw attention. He seemed to know it.

Perhaps it was her overactive imagination, but Aleigha got the feeling he wasn’t really at this VIP hotspot for socialites and millionaires for fun— not that he wasn’t handsome enough or tailored to boot in his expensive Italian suit. It was the blasé expression that drew her in, it almost looked like he was bored, maybe miffed as he stood at the bar pretending to study a menu until the energy around his arrival died down.

He caught her staring and quite unnaturally, perhaps foolishly, she approached. She didn’t have a chance... unless, apparently she did? He didn’t look so bored anymore.

The rest is inconsequential. Eight months of unannounced late night visits every now and then, and she only knew his first name, that he wore a cologne with notes of sandalwood, that he had the stamina and endowments of a mustang, liked her on her knees and took his discipline, time and privacy very, _very_ seriously. Aleigha didn’t know much because Julian never spoke much, but that was fine because he found a much more fun use of her mouth.

In the interest of honesty and self-awareness, it wasn’t just that he had so little to say or liked to explore her tonsils with his manhood, but that on a scale of one to ten, his intimidation factor was a solid 16. The less Aleigha knew about him, the more frustrated but also the wetter she got. But what she did know, deep in her heart and in her loins, was that Julian was a man who got shit done. The vibe radiated from him like steam from a shower.

So they would fuck like animals until she passed out from exhaustion, and Julian would leave just as he came, unannounced. She’d wake up alone and continue on with her life until the next occasion.

He always led, and he could be heavy handed, but he never hurt her beyond what he assumed (or knew intuitively) she’d like— and Aleigha liked it rough. But this time, he’d been a little rougher— and she was fairly certain there’d be bruises and a deep internal soreness tomorrow— not that she minded.

Now he was choking her masterfully; dizzy, Aleigha came so hard she saw stars and temporarily went deaf in one ear. It was the third orgasm tonight and she wasn’t sure if she could physically take anymore. She was ready to call yellow but thankfully Julian released her throat and pounded into her just thirty more seconds, coming shortly afterward, the muscles in his shoulders rolling and tensing under a light sheen of perspiration. He grunted and collapsed atop her.

"I think this is the first time you broke a sweat," Aleigha mumbled from beneath his shoulder. He rolled off her onto his back.

"This is my workout for the day," he said, deadpan. She chuckled, both in amusement and surprise. This was literally the third sentence Julian spoke all night aside from the firm directions he gave during sex. He always told her exactly what to do... but never praised her. It bothered her but he did pet her head when she serviced him well and he rewarded her with copious amounts of climaxes, even if only peripherally... so she kept her complaints to herself. Aftercare was always a solo exercise in self care. And if she didn’t service him exactly to his specifications, well... it only took one time and one look, and when he simply cocked his head to the side and flared a nostril, the fire in his eyes alone made her promise them both she’d never fail again.

A few minutes passed in silence while they caught their breath. Aleigha briefly considered offering coffee, as it would be light out soon. She realized she didn’t even know how he took it... She knew so little about him. Probably black, but did he like sugar? As if he sensed her budding curiosity, he sat up and reached for his pants. She tried not to let the muscles in his broad upper back distract her.

"I can make some coffee for you," she said between yawns. Julian was carefully extracting the spent condom. It would undoubtedly go into a tissue to be discarded far away from here. She cleared her throat when he didn’t say anything. "I can make it to go if you like. How do you take it?"

"Black, one sugar—" she knew it! "— but I’ll pass. Got work, I’ll get some on the way."

Aleigha considered asking what he did but thought better of it. It took him this long to share his coffee preference.

Julian stood to pull on his shirt and jacket but didn’t button either fully, and made his way to the bedroom door before turning back to her almost... well, he was always too collected to call it awkwardly, but that was the closest thing to describe it. Suddenly she wished she’d gone on sleeping through this part.

"Well I’d offer to walk you out but you know your way by now," Aleigha called from her throne of sheets and pillows. She smiled as she turned over on her side, and his expression clouded over with lust. She followed his eyes along her bountiful, brown silhouette and chuckled again. "Or round... four, is it now?"

He reigned it in, and granted her a small but confident smirk— something else she didn’t see often. She wondered what his full smile looked like.

"_Work_. See ya around,” and then he vanished. Aleigha turned onto her stomach and sighed dreamily, face buried into the spot he left. The sheets wouldn’t get changed for a couple days afterward: they smelled like sandalwood, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place sometime between August escaping from London and going to Kashmir, for anyone that paid attention to the movie. I don’t know much about how the C I A would operate but I’m assuming they’d track his phone to locate his recent footsteps and find that he visited this apartment several times in the last year, making her a person of interest.
> 
> The movie is not essential for this fic though. I really don’t care for it at all, I just love me some Henry Cavill in a mustache so really that’s all anyone needs.

The familiar click of the lock sounded as Aleigha entered her modest apartment building. After a long shift, she was excited to make dinner, kick up her feet and stream a movie with a glass of wine— a rare treat. She’d been so busy wondering if there were enough tortillas left to make quesadillas that she didn’t realize someone was behind her.

"Aleigha?" a masculine voice called just as she approached her door. She whipped around, alarm on her face and key wielded like a weapon. The unfamiliar man looked amused but his eyes crinkled in a benign way. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you."

Warily, slowly, she lowered her keys.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"I, uh... my name is Ian Hauser. I am with the Central Intelligence Agency. I’m here to talk with about your involvement with August Walker."

He showed a badge. Aleigha shook her head.

“I’m sorry, who?”

The man named “Ian” seemed to be studying her face, then he spoke solemnly.

“Perhaps we should talk inside.”

***

Aleigha thought she would vomit, for sure.No news, no words had ever made her feel like this before— like the apex of mounting nausea right before the bile comes up. But that part wouldn’t go away, and nothing would come out. No relief, no release.

“Can you hear me?” Ian asked, sounding like his voice was coming from underwater. But they were sitting at a table in a fluorescent lit room in some government building, so that was impossible. Talking in her apartment led to getting in an unmarked vehicle, led to being shepherded to a government facility, led to an interrogation. Her ears must’ve gone out at some point, now they were ringing.

"Aleigha, can you hear me?” He tried again.

“I... I can. Yes,” she sounded like a robot, like her voice wasn’t hers. 

“Did he give you any hints maybe, about where he might go?” the man asked.

“He... no, he didn’t,” she said. “He barely spoke... when he came... over.”

She let a terrorist into her bed. She let a terrorist into her body. She  _fucked a terrorist_, several times, came for him several times. What on goddess’s green earth was happening?

Ian looked equal parts disappointed and sympathetic. 

“I know this is a lot to process right now, but August Walker is still at large and anything you can remember about your encounters may help to find him.”

August Walker. August... “Julian”... bastard had a sense of humor, if nothing else. She might have known that if he shared anything else than his venereal gift. Aleigha chuckled in shock. The man looked at her, concerned.

“He takes his coffee black, one sugar,” she said wanly. Ian sighed. "He really never said much about himself. He smelled like sandalwood and... something else. That’s all I know, that was all I needed.”

_ That was all I cared about like a goddamn idiot, _ she wanted to say. But who was she kidding? It didn’t need saying. 

“Well, thanks anyway. I’m sorry about all this. I’ll be in touch, if he attempts contact you again, we’ll have you under surveillance, but you can also reach out directly. Here’s my card,” he offered her the little rectangle; it looked expensive. “And, well... I’m sorry you’re finding out about all of this, this way. Don’t be too hard on yourself— he fooled a bunch of us here too.”

Aleigha bowed her head. What a disaster this was. When she first was brought in for questioning, they took her down so many winding hallways and spoke in such circles, avoiding releasing sensitive information— that she was positive she would never leave. The proximity she had to someone who’d done such awful things? Surely they would lock her up and throw away the key for her association. That actually would’ve been the ideal scenario because then she wouldn’t need to punish herself for what she’d done, the government would do it for her. 

Instead, it turned out that she was so pitiful that they couldn’t even conceive of her being involved criminally, so they were releasing her and using her as tertiary bait. Despite the biggest scare of her life, she was still a free woman. Silver lining...

Aleigha chuckled again.

_Fuck you, Julian_ _,_ she thought. Fuck August. Fuck the rest of the year too, for good measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I toyed around briefly with having the agent in the story be the one that Aleigha has to watch out for, and maybe having August come to her rescue... but then decided not to. There’s an interesting direction that his character can be taken in, I think.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By a stroke of luck or divine intervention, August survives... even if his mission doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The world is acting wild right now but it’s business as usual for many. Here’s more fic to distract you.

So few things in life go according to plan; life is both beautiful and hideous in that way.

As plans came to fruition, there was peace. When they crumbled, suffering typically followed. "John Lark", the pseudonym August Walker worked under, knew well that the former peace could not exist without the latter suffering. In fact, he gambled with his life to prove it. He could now see perhaps how foolish he’d been to do so.

Body broken from his fall, face seared by acid, August Walker lied a few dozen feet from the wreckage of his helicopter, staring up at the sky. He’d never been religious, but truly began to despise all theists in the last ten years; their faith blinded them, made them weak in the face of adversity, and he found governments, churches and governments backed by churches to be responsible for the septic state of the world. He did not subscribe to the idea of destiny, but whenever August set his mind to something, he was very capable of making that thing happen, so he dedicated himself to the purpose of purging said sepsis from the world.

Thus, minutes ago August Walker dangled beneath Ethan Hunt from a wire that held the two of them and a helicopter against the side of a cliff on a mountain. The hook on the end of the wire that supported them all must have caught on a lip in the ground of the landing above them, and that very hook had seconds before the combined weight would send them all plummeting to the earth and their united demise. All this was just minutes after acid from a fuel line poured onto his face and after a round of hand to hand combat with Hunt. 

Hunt let go of the wire and took his chances clinging against the mountainside. When August followed suit, Hunt yanked the cord hard enough to send the hook whipping down the cliff with the force of a helicopter as he climbed back up. And yet, it  _ just _ missed his head. The odds of survival were not in August's favor; but he could feel the breeze of it as it went by, not touching a hair on his head. How had that happened?

Perhaps he was actually feeling the wind of his rapid descent dozens of feet down; it should have been hundreds, but the mountainside broke his fall. The impact of his contact with the craggy rocks was  _ just _ outside of whatever threshold would kill or permanently paralyze him. How could that be?

Meanwhile, the helicopter itself erupted in a violent explosion on impact, and somehow the momentum of his fall caused his own body to slide right past the crash site down a slope, thudding against a row of bushes. The timing? The landing?  _ Absolutely inconceivable. _

Hunt and his IMF extraction team presumed him dead— and in all truth he should be. This was the most pain he’d ever experienced in his 35 years, but after the initial shock wore off, he could wiggle his extremities. 

Face burning and head throbbing, and likely more bones broken than unbroken, August mustered enough strength to turn his head, watching the flames devour the aircraft’s skeleton when his vision blurred. He thought it was warped by the heat but black spots began to swirl just as a silhouette emerged from the flames. It was coming straight for him, and suddenly August knew, despite years of vehement opposition, that divine intervention was real. It _had_ to be. The perfect combination of miracles in the last fifteen minutes of his life was proof because  how else? And now there was this silhouette. The figure had no features, it was simply void of all light like a shadow; but it crouched by him.

As much as he wanted to, he was too weak to move away, so he could only lie there while it gently stroked his forehead with one impossibly cold and spindly finger. Afterward, it shimmered around the edges and dissolved into thin air.

There he lied, a man who prided himself on being in control of his life, now powerless to stop anything that happened to him. He— one who thought he’d designed his path with discipline and hopes of world change... found out he knew absolutely nothing anymore. His entire belief system was flipped upon its head, not unlike his corporeal form.

In that moment, near Death's grasp in a dozen different ways but not yet claimed by it, August recognized how laughably tellurian his work as John Lark with the Apostles had been. The manifesto for a stronger world they released to the government, the orchestrated smallpox outbreak here in Kashmir, the plans for the excision of a third of the world’s population by nuclear contamination of a major water source— it was all in the name of liberating people who ultimately didn’t deserve saving, not if it took this much from him. If with all his efforts August Walker could not purge the world, then it simply could not be done.

He, however, was done. The appearance of Death was a clear warning: this would be his path no more.

Lost but not yet listless, August dragged himself to a trail. He nearly lost his voice from the pained yelps in his efforts, but after some hours in another serendipitous happening, a hiker came across him. The stranger loaded him into a vehicle not far off and sped to the nearest town.

The entire bumpy ride, he was alert and fighting off delirium. Rest would not come until he was stabilized and lying in a shoddy hospital bed five hours later in the town of Leh, Ladakh; it wasn’t home, but it would do. Finally, August closed his eyes and let the comfortingly omnipotent fog of unconsciousness take over...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made some minor changes to the last chapter— nothing that warrants an immediate reread but just adjusting for more realistic procedure. I sometimes spend more time researching than I do writing some fics which is frustrating. Balancing whatever unrealistic scenario tickles my fancy with the utter bullshit that meddles with the suspension of disbelief is always the game.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some R&R for our favorite terrorist.

Some weeks passed and August was still abroad, fuming in bed. He glowered, staring out the window of his safe house from beneath a gauze wrap. It covered the burns on the upper right side of his face and the eye there as well; by now new layers of gnarled skin were forming. The gauze was for vanity’s sake.

Before coming to India, August had been smart enough to keep a passport and social security card of a new alias on him in preparation for his escape in from Kashmir— which obviously went bust. He was stabilized in the hospital in Leh, Ladakh but they didn’t want to perform surgery due to him not having insurance and the suspicious nature of his injuries. When they suggested reaching out to the U.S. consulate, August used what little energy he had left to roar in protest.

The risk was too high to contact any government offices, given his terrorist history. Instead per his contingency plan, he got in touch with his one remaining contact from the Apostles, and they anonymously provided a credit line on his behalf to cover surgery and treatments for the wash list of shit gone awry: trauma to several major bones, his eye and his brain. Miraculously all his fractures were simple and reset with ease.

August also promised a small fraction of money to secure the cooperation and silence of the medical staff caring for him at the tiny, shitty hospital. Now each of them a few thousand dollars richer, they agreed that once stabilized, they would drop him off with a burner phone outside an unmarked warehouse, never to be seen again. In a package there, the Apostles would leave him a remaining twenty thousand US dollars in cash and a message that made it clear that this would be the last favor he would ever receive. He was on his own now.

Once the money was squared away, for the few days after surgery, no questions were asked by the hospital personnel about who he was, where he’d come from nor what he had done, as expected. He was particularly grateful for the privacy, because just the thought of the stories he’d have to spin to fix this fucking mess made him anxious. 

In a past life, where tactical strategy failed, August might rely on his boyish (if not brutish) charm and good looks to diffuse all the questioning looks about his circumstances. With his right eye gone, scar tissue marring a quarter of his face and a patch of hair missing, charm simply didn’t feel possible anymore. But it wasn’t all physical, August felt... different. He was angry now; not all the time, but certainly much more. What might start as frustration triggered by something simple would spiral into a frenzied fit. The emotions on high made his first week out of the hospital quite tumultuous.

Namely when at the safe house where he started back to solid food, the first time he tried feeding himself in bed, August missed the spoon for his yogurt cup as he reached for it; he was confused and hurt. He knew vision loss could lead to difficulties in depth perception, but that didn’t matter. He was supposed to be in control of his motor skills. He  _ needed _ to be.

As if to fuel the flame, he mistakenly knocked the yogurt cup down in a second attempt to pick the spoon up. Embarrassment turned to rage and suddenly his food tray met the window along with the rest of his meal; the bird perched outside the window flew away in a hurry. The outbursts grew in frequency over similar trivial matters.

Augusts own body wasn’t listening to him anymore.

***

August spent months rehabilitating himself at “home.” Despite the loss of his eye, thankfully he’d not lost his near inhuman dedication and willpower in the aftermath of the fall. Two weeks after his discharge to the warehouse, he began modest exercises to regain his strength and coordination, planning to build up each week.

The time for self pity was past. He was a man who got shit done and this healing process would be no different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The world is still scary but hang in there, friends.


End file.
